


Stone-cold

by Kaz_of_Carinthia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_of_Carinthia/pseuds/Kaz_of_Carinthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one-shot is too little to deserve a summary of its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone-cold

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue what is going on here with all this the post-Reichenbach anguish. Guess I just need to get it out of my system.
> 
> Implies (but does not require) knowledge of "The Reichenbach Fall", Episode Three/Season Two, Sherlock (BBC). Not very spoilerish.
> 
> This is, as always, inspired by legions of tremendously talented fanfic writers on Ao3 and elsewhere, as well as an irrational but enduring love of these characters.
> 
> Not beta-ed. Comments welcome.
> 
> I do not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creators.  
> ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John Watson knows exactly what it means to touch Sherlock Holmes.

 

He knows what it means to remain constantly vigilant, to monitor each gesture, each expression while it is still forming and to reign it in, dampen it down, mottle the brightness and throttle the exuberance that keeps threatening to bubble up, to betray him and ruin everything.

 

It exhausts him, it hollows him out, it wears him down, and yet he lives for the next instance. A brush of fingers as a cup of tea is passed across the table. Fabric sliding over his knee, as a long coat is twirled in a dramatic exit. Once – sweet agony – wrists meeting at pulse point in an attempt at handcuffed coordination.

 

His hand on hard, black stone. No longer bound by a need to hold back, the words pour forth: ”I was so alone. And I owe you so much.”

 

But the stone yields nothing. Cold, smooth, eerily silent – just like the skin of the wrist he briefly held on the pavement outside the hospital. No quick-fire deductions, no snide derision, no rare and precious giggle. No pulse.

 

Yes, John Watson knows precisely what it means to touch Sherlock Holmes.

 

And so it is with the utmost care that he folds a blanket over the sleeping form he finds on the sofa when he returns home from the surgery. Careful not to wake, and careful not to touch. Then he sits, and keeps watch, as eyes chase dreams behind paper-thin eyelids. Eyelashes fan out across skin bruised dark with fatigue and sorrow.

 

One arm, thinner than before, skin so pale as to be almost translucent, is thrown back to frame wild, dark curls, the wrist exposed.

 

John knows he shouldn’t, but is powerless to prevent his hand from reaching out, two fingers gently pressing against the cool skin and there – there it is, the steady beat that spreads through John’s fingers, up his arm, swells in his chest and kick-starts his broken heart.


End file.
